Fruits and Birds
by SekritOMG
Summary: An ode to inter-faith gay relationships, and consumerism.


Here is a Christmas story. Yes, it is very late. I tried, though. Thanks goes to **Foodstamp**, who is really amazing.

I'm not sure this story is so wonderful, but Christmas Eve was my first anniversary in this fandom, I guess, so I wanted to post something seasonal. Awwww, kisses. Kitties. Hearts. Flowers.

* * *

**Nov. 1**

Stan and Kyle had a cat. If you asked Kyle when he was in a bad mood, however, _Stan_ had a cat; the cat arrived at the beginning of the relationship with Stan. Stan, however, was not really a cat person. In fact, he was a dog person, and had always wanted a Doberman. Kyle had this theory that people who grew up with pets had the need for pet-ownership ingrained on them. And since he'd never really had a pet, unless you counted his brief possession of an elephant, he found them sort of superfluous. Nevertheless, when he and Stan decided to move in together, Kyle found himself living with a cat.

Kyle found the cat embarrassing for a number of reasons. For one thing, its name was 'Chastity.' If that wasn't bad enough, it was a male cat. Furthermore, it was a Persian, with a ridiculous coat of shining white fur and a face flatter than a pancake. Overall, Chastity the Persian was a fairly low-key creature; he mostly kept to himself, although he did on occasion present Stan with mouse carcasses, which Kyle felt was endearing. Of course, neither of them liked disposing of mice.

The problem, really, was that that there was something rather effeminate about a man owning a fluffy white cat with the name 'Chastity' which also happened to be male. The first time Stan brought Kyle back to his apartment, he paused at the front door, and sighed deeply, and said, "Now, okay. I have to warn you…" and he trailed off, leaving Kyle to wonder where the bodies were hidden. But it just turned out that Stan was embarrassed, because Chastity really wasn't _him_. And after that stammering explanation, Kyle reasonably asked, "Well, so, why _do_ you own the gayest cat ever?" To which Stan calmly found himself explaining that it had been abandoned by a breeder, and Stan had read a story in the paper about it, and yes, of course, that was just the sort of insignificant thing that often got reported on. So, being a bleeding-heart liberal animal lover, Stan ran out that morning and adopted Chastity on the spot. They'd been together ever since, which was seven years.

The morning after Halloween, Stan was sitting on the living room floor, brushing Chastity out. The damn cat shed like a motherfucker, but he screeched when Stan had him shaved, which he and Kyle really preferred. Stan had a job — not a very interesting one, but it was a weekend, and he figured he might as well spend it grooming the cat. Last night was kind of blurry, but with every stroke, details returned: They made an early dinner, carved a pumpkin, Kyle roasted the seeds. Children came by trick or treating; they put a lobster costume on Chastity, but he didn't like it, so they took some pictures of him looking annoyed by the jack-o-lantern before taking it off. Around 9 p.m., the last kids trickled through; they were barely even wearing costumes; they were older. After that, Kenny came by, and they all got high. Stan paid Kenny for the weed, Kenny left, and they went to bed — which, of course, was a euphemism for hooking up.

Now it was morning, and Kyle was still asleep, or had been when Stan got up, started eating pumpkin seeds, and noticed the giant clumps of white fur littering the living room carpet. He'd found the cat, picked him up — there was some protest, Chastity mewling in upset the whole time. But if Chastity didn't want to be sheared, he was just going to have to suck it up and deal with being brushed. Stan loved the way his cat looked when he was disappointed, like he was kind of droopy, and his eyes narrowed. Kyle still hadn't gotten up, and Stan figured he was probably pretty tuckered out from the foreplay last night. And indeed, that was all it had been, and all it ever was. But Stan felt pretty good about the whole thing. Good enough, in fact, to whistle at his cat, and coo, "See, Chas? You're much prettier when you're all groomed, aren't you? Doesn't that feel better?"

The cat, being touchy, narrowed his eyes further, and then closed them entirely. It was like he wasn't listening at all.

Stan sometimes felt guilty about personifying his cat.

Not amused by Stan's ministrations, Chastity dashed off as quickly as he could, leaving his owner in a pile of cat hair. Stan sighed, and leaned back on his palms. It was hard to believe it was already November.

He was thinking very carefully about whether he should drag Kyle out of bed when, to his great surprise, Kyle marched into the living room, dressed, and apparently ready to go somewhere. Stan knew it because Kyle had a bag slung over his shoulder. For Kyle, leaving the house was always kind of a production. He worked from home, and when they'd just been dating, Stan hadn't really realized that this meant Kyle spent most of his time sitting at a computer, sometimes naked, usually biting his nails. He was a content manager for the Park Country office website, and had been for about 18 months, which basically meant he spent a lot of time writing XML and cursing. But he got to do it while getting Cheesy Poof fingerprints all over his underwear, so that was something. Since they'd moved in together, Stan had become painfully aware of just how ridiculous this off-site freelance stuff could be. For example, no one was really keeping track of Kyle while he was working, and no one he was working for really understood what he was doing on a technical level. The few times Stan decided not to go into work for one reason or another during their year and a half of cohabitation, he'd been honestly unsettled by the fact that there was now someone hanging around, other than the cat.

"Happy November," Stan said sweetly, pushing himself up off the floor. "I had no idea you were up."

Kyle clasped his hands together, smiled about as widely as he ever had, and said the 13 words Stan hated the most when strung together in that exact order in the English language: "Well, of course I'm up! It's time to start getting ready for _Christmas_."

"Oh, no," Stan groaned. "Really? This? Again?"

"Stan, please," Kyle sighed, crossing his arms. Stan didn't know how he could look so good this early in the morning, he really didn't. He glanced at the clock on the wall and discovered it was actually 10:30 a.m., which wasn't that early, really, when you thought about it. "Target's got their stuff out; I know, I called ahead. I am a man on a mission."

"And what mission would that be?"

Kyle rolled his eyes and said, "To buy Christmas stuff," as if that were the commonly shared goal of just about everyone waking up with a jack-o-lantern still sitting on their front steps. Hell, Stan wasn't even sure if he remembered to blow out the candle. For all he knew, the damn pumpkin was still glowing.

"Isn't it, you know, really early for that?"

"You tell me," Kyle implored. "I'm a neophyte when it comes to your delightful customs."

"Yes," Stan informed him. "It's early, dude. Really early. Why don't you take that purse off, and I'll make you some eggs?"

Kyle reddened. It looked stupid with his hair, but Stan found it charming. "This is not a purse, it is a _bag_, and I can't have eggs, I have to go."

"Kyle…"

"I have to beat the rush." Kyle evasively ducked out of Stan's grasp, making a beeline for the little row of hooks by the front door where they kept the car keys.

"What rush? Anyone else looking to buy Christmas decorations is still trying to bring their kids down from a sugar high!"

"That's a good idea," Kyle mumbled. He grabbed a plastic pumpkin from where it was sitting on the floor by the front door. "Here," he said jovially, handing it to Stan. "I think there's some leftover Kit Kats. Do something with that, will you, so the cat doesn't get into them?" Stan looked down into the pail, and then back at Kyle. Kyle looked like he meant business. Stan grimaced. "Sure you don't want to come?" Kyle asked.

"I'm … I'm still in my pajamas," Stan sputtered.

"Well, that's a shame, I'm in a hurry, the store opens at 11." Leaning forward, Kyle pressed a quick kiss to Stan's still lips. "Don't miss me too much, I'll be back soon. Bye."

Stan pressed his nose to the glass as he watched Kyle run down the stairs of their townhouse, get in the car, and drive away. He sighed, and closed his eyes. For months now, he'd been deluding himself with the idea that maybe once Kyle had just one Christmas, then maybe, just _maybe_, he'd get it out of his system. This was a bad time for Christmas, it really was, and not only because Christmas was not technically for two months. Christ, Thanksgiving was over three weeks away.

But Stan knew these hopes were in vain; he always had. In his shared history with Kyle — a past that dated back about 25 to 30 years, nearly to infancy — Stan had learned the following about Jews:

1. Jews loved bargains. Stereotypical, and yet true, and yet completely understandable. Life was expensive.

2. Jews did not really follow their own rules. They weren't supposed to eat pig, weren't supposed to work on Saturdays, and weren't supposed to suck cock. Kyle did all of that, often at the same time. In fact, all of the Broflovskis were rule-breakers; Stan knew for a fact that Kyle's parents drove to synagogue on Saturdays. Maybe God was unaware when he made these stupid rules that Jews would one day be living in snowy, suburban Colorado. But then, supposedly God knew everything, so why didn't God put a synagogue near the Broflovskis? Probably because the Broflovskis were supposed to live nearer to their synagogue.

3. Jews became enraged when _you_ suggested breaking their rules. Stan would never forget the irate glares he got when he asked, during the first seder he ever went to, why they couldn't just start eating _while_ talking about Jew stuff. For that matter, he would never forget the chewing-out he got from Kyle after they left. Following, they went back to Stan's place, and Kyle gave him a blow job. Stan didn't point out the irony.

4. Jews loved Christmas.

That last one was debatable. Maybe it didn't go for _all_ Jews. But it sure as hell went for Kyle, who went sort of insane with feelings of Jewish inadequacy from the time he was 8 years old, wishing he could do the things his friends were doing, eating candy canes and waking up to open presents. When Stan and Kyle had started dating, which was during a soggy June six years ago, one of the first things Kyle asked was, "So, do I get to go home with you for Christmas?" At first this bothered Stan, because they'd been on three awkward dates, two of which were to movies, and the third was at the batting cages. To be completely honest, Stan had to admit that at this point, he was not even sure they _were_ dating; he was half-certain their mothers had suggested they reconnect as friends or something. Maybe it was that ridiculous Christmas question that got Stan thinking about the prospect of Kyle in his future. And not a future in which they met up for drinks and a movie every couple of weeks, but a future in which Stan would bring Kyle home for that most sacred of traditions.

It was only with the introduction of that idea that Stan began considering his old friend in a sexual way, wondering if Kyle's ass always looked that good, or if it was only when he was straddling home plate, holding a baseball bat. Kyle was not Stan's ideal man; his type or whatever was more sentimental, and definitely more athletic. Moreover, he knew a few guys in college who were staunch proponents of the "redheads are demons in the sack" school of seduction, a theory which Stan had always been dissuaded from, possibly because his best friend through high school had red hair, and the idea was disturbing at the time. It did not occur to him, really, until the first time he actually saw Kyle without his pants on that maybe he had always been a little bit into him, and just didn't want to admit it.

Whatever the reason, it was irrelevant. They were together now; their relationship had marched on steadily, from batting cages and movies to embarrassed hand-holding under the table at the diner down the street from Kyle's apartment, to the first time they kissed, almost mistakenly, while watching _Cheers_ reruns and making fun of Kirstie Alley's hair. It didn't even make any sense. "She was in _Star Trek_, you know," Stan announced, apropos of nothing, and Kyle grabbed him by the ears and kissed him. That was cool with Stan, because he found _Star Trek_ trivia to be a turn-on of kink-like proportions. Kyle blushed and ran out, and then when they were having dinner two weeks later, they found themselves playing footsie under the table like retards. It just kind of progressed from there, until the aggravated fight they had in which Kyle told Stan he was leaving the city and moving back to South Park to take this horrible-sounding website job.

"You know," Stan said breathlessly; they'd been screaming at each other for a couple of hours at this point. "Maybe if we pooled our money we could, like, afford buying a place?"

"Your job is Denver," Kyle reminded him.

"So? I'll just commute. It's no big deal." Actually, it was a big deal, a really big fucking deal. Stan hated driving. But, whatever, it was worth it, totally, if only because they now had the opportunity to fuck every single morning and night.

Which they never did, actually. Six years into the relationship, and they'd only properly done it, like in the butt, three times. Three. Once on their first anniversary; once after Kyle got seriously drunk on punch at Stan's sister's baby shower and pulled Stan on top of him in the bathroom immediately after vomiting; once when they closed on the condo.

Never at any time had Stan regretted giving up the joys of an easy commute for the joys of possibly having sex every morning and not doing it because they both liked dry-humping more. The closest he ever got to genuine regret was exactly a year ago, when Kyle slyly asked if they were going to have a Christmas tree. "I don't know." Stan shrugged. "I guess? My parents live like a mile away, that's where we'll go for Christmas." Before he knew it, Kyle was forcing him to string lights and pine garlands up the staircase.

Standing in line for a ham on the Monday before the holiday so both of their entire families could come over for dinner.

Stuffing a stocking full of the fancy shaving cream Kyle liked, an eighth of an ounce, and a couple of cock rings.

Listening to nonstop Christmas carols from Kyle's carefully curated Christmas carol playlist.

Whatever; it was over. The morning after Christmas, Kyle woke up to read the newspaper and immediately began ranting about the Israeli parliament. They took down all the Christmas decorations and Kyle suggested they have knishes for dinner the next night. Satisfied that Kyle had gotten Christmas out of his system, Stan breathed a sigh of relief, and went back to his daily, non-Christmas life: horrible commute, blintzes, mutual masturbation, and making fun of bad movies while high. As the year went on, they talked about their life together, about their plans, about children. Soon it was St. Patrick's Day — which Kyle marked by passing out after throwing up green all over Kenny's corduroys. Kyle didn't drink a lot, true, but he was sort of a binge-drinker when he did. The next morning, Stan made baked beans and fed them to his severely hung-over boyfriend in bed.

While he was doing this, Stan had a dramatic realization: He was married. He didn't know when he had gotten married, or why. He didn't have a ring or a legal arrangement or a religious contract, but as Kyle complained about how the beans were making him nauseated ("Of course you're fucking nauseous," Stan shot back, "you're fucking hung over"), Stan tried to internalize this revelation. There was no way for two men in their position to actually _be_ married, but Stan knew it all the same, from the way they had sides of the bed to the way he was willing to take a day off work to spoon-feed Kyle beans. The weird thing was, as he was thinking this, he didn't feel weird about it at all.

A few weekends later, they were at a Sabbath dinner at Kyle's parents' house. After discussing some current events, the topic of conversation turned to children. "We'll have some, totally," Kyle told his parents. "Probably. Eventually. Like, in four years."

Stan kind of nodded along with that. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "Being together for the long-haul, and all."

"Isn't that nice?" Sheila asked aloud, in that tell-tale not-really-asking way. "You boys should get a domestic partnership, or something. Gerald can do it for you, it's really simple."

"Sure," Stan said, nodding.

"Yeah, whatever," Kyle mumbled. "Dad, do you want to pass the potatoes?"

Sheila's last statement on this was, "I should telephone and tell your brother," who was on the East Coast, finishing college.

A week after this, she called Stan up at work, which was odd, and invited him to lunch.

XXX

When Kyle got to the checkout, he began dumping piles of decorations on the belt. He thought that the checkout boy was looking at him funny, which really annoyed him, because he was excessively paranoid that anyone who looked at him thought he was gay. Naturally, if ever someone looked at him oddly when he was with Stan, he always made sure to ask, "Do you think they think we're gay?"

To which Stan would usually answer, "Well, we are, aren't we?"

But it still bothered Kyle. He couldn't help it. Up through his second year in college, he was sure that everyone thought he was Jewish. One time at a deli, a man sitting next to him asked him if he was a gay Jew, which really annoyed him, because all he wanted was to drink a cream soda and eat his matzoh ball soup in peace. The way the man at the cash register was staring at him reminded him of this. He didn't think he looked _that_ gay, or even that Jewish. So why was he begin inspected like this?

"Hey," the checkout boy said casually. "I know you."

Kyle frowned. "Well, I don't know you."

"Yes, you do." The Target employee flashed a crooked smile and pointed to his name tag, which said "Craig." "It's Craig, man," he added uselessly. "Craig Tucker."

"I'm sorry." Kyle blushed. "Maybe you have the wrong person?"

"No, you're Kyle Broflovski. I definitely know you."

"I wish I could say the same."

"We went to school together for 12 years." Kyle shrugged. "We were in a Peruvian flute band together."

"I'm sorry. I just _really_ don't remember you."

"Your fat friend fucked my sister in 11th grade, and I chased him down the street with a shovel, and he wanted you to let him into your house to get away from me, but you wouldn't open the door and I beat him with a shovel."

"Ohhhhhh." Recognition spread across Kyle's face. "Oh, Craig _Tucker_. Yeah, I remember you."

"That's great." Craig handed Kyle a plastic bag full of tinsel garlands. "That'll be 304 dollars, and 49 cents."

"So." Kyle reached into his bag and began to feel around for his wallet. "What have you been up to, man?"

"Uh." Craig looked around suspiciously, like he couldn't understand why Kyle was asking. "Working at Target."

"Oh, that's cool." Craig rolled his eyes. "Sorry. I always lose my wallet in here."

"Take your time. I certainly don't have a line of six other customers waiting to pay for their purchases while you grope around in your stupid purse looking for your wallet."

"Great," Kyle replied, not bothering to turn around and catch the glares of everyone waiting for him to pay for his Christmas decorations. Blushing as he tried to find his wallet, Kyle sheepishly said, "So. Um. Seeing anyone?"

"No," Craig replied icily. He looked down at his red vest and picked off a piece of lint. "Find that wallet yet?"

"Huh? Oh. Uh, I think maybe it might be in the car."

Craig rolled his eyes. "I have a lot of customers, sir, maybe you'd like to step to the side so I can—"

"Found it!" Kyle held up the leather billfold triumphantly. "I knew it was in there somewhere."

"Great," Craig muttered, running Kyle's Discover Card through the machine. While he was waiting for the printout, he asked, "What are you doing buying all this shit anyway?"

"What do you mean, what am I doing? It's _Christmas_."

"I know what it is. I just remember you being, like, Jewish or something." The receipt finished printing out, and Craig handed it to Kyle, along with a pen. "Here's a pen," he said helpfully.

"Yeah," Kyle mumbled in agreement, scribbling his messy signature. "The person I'm with, they're not."

"Okay." Craig snatched the receipt and the pen back. "You want your copy in a bag?"

"Actually…" Kyle grabbed the receipt and shoved it in his purse all wadded up. "The person I'm with, it's Stan."

"Stan … Marsh?" Craig asked, raising an eyebrow. "Oh my god. You're dating Stan Marsh?"

"We live together," Kyle said, as casually as possible.

"I had no idea Stan Marsh was gay."

"Neither did I," Kyle confessed.

"So, you've been dating the same guy since you were like, 8."

"No!" Kyle shouted. Then he grinned, and composed himself, and said, "We sort of lost touch in college, then I moved back to Denver when I started working, and, uh, I guess our moms set us up."

"Oh. Uh, cool." Craig blinked. "So, that would make you a gay Jew."

"I guess so." The woman in line behind Kyle cleared her throat aggressively.

"A gay Jew buying 300 dollars of Christmas decorations at Target the day after Halloween."

Kyle looked around. "I guess so."

"Well, that's awesome. Thanks for shopping at Target."

"You're welcome?" Kyle asked, understandably confused. He stood there next to his overflowing cart for a moment, waiting for Craig's response, but he was already listening to the next customer's complaint about the wait.

XXX

"You'll never guess who I ran into at Target," Kyle said casually over dinner, which was vegetable lasagna.

"Who?" Stan asked. He was very involved with trying to peel the label off of his beer bottle.

"Craig," Kyle enthused, like this was sensational. "Craig _Tucker_."

"Ohhh." Stan stopped fiddling with his beer. "Who the _fuck_ is that?"

Kyle shrugged. "I dunno," he confessed. "Some guy we went to school with?"

"Was he short? Blond hair? Twitchy?"

"No, he had dark hair."

"Was he black?" Stan asked.

"No," Kyle sighed. "He was just kind of … plain."

"Well, whatever." Stan stood up with his empty plate. "What are your plans for tomorrow?"

"Uh." Kyle thought for a minute. "I think I should go down to the grocery store, reserve a Christmas goose."

Stan's dish clanked in the sink. It always annoyed Kyle went Stan didn't put his dishes directly into the dishwasher. "Jesus, dude, I hardly think you need to do _that_. It's two months away."

"It's November! It's _next month_!"

"Well, suit yourself."

"Do you want to come?" Kyle put his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand as he was asking this.

"No thanks. I'd rather watch football."

"You don't want to spend time with me?"

Stan hesitated, and then Kyle gave him _that look_, so he said, "I have lunch plans. Also, _football_. You can't trade a Christmas goose for the Broncos, Ky, you just _can't_."

"You'll be glad I think these things out when you're enjoying my savory Christmas goose," Kyle theorized.

"I'm sure I will." Stan grinned. "I could stand to enjoy your savory Christmas goose tonight, too, though."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "God, you're corny."

"I know. But I think it's why you like me."

Stan paused on the way out of the room to kiss Kyle on the top of his head, as he was still sitting. Even though he didn't wash his tangled mess of hair everyday, Stan still thought it smelled like rosemary and violets. "You have to admit, it was a weird thing to say, savory Christmas goose. It's very unfortunate you weren't born into some tight Baptist family or something. They'd have you trussing hens and whatever. Making pinecone candelabras and shit."

Kyle blinked. "Should I make one of those?"

"Goodnight, Kyle. I'll see you in the morning when you've fallen asleep over Martha Stewart's Christmas cookbook."

"Oh, I'm coming to bed," Kyle said with a wink. "I want my goose trussed or whatever."

"Suit yourself!" Stan gave a wave and left.

* * *

**Nov. 24**

It was in the lead-up to Thanksgiving that Kyle decided he needed two trees.

"Two?" Stan asked. He was hunched over _The Joy of Cooking_, trying to figure out how to make cornbread. It was all his mother asked him to bring for Thanksgiving, and that had him a little bit down. He knew he could give her so much more than cornbread, but that was all she wanted. So here he was, looking at recipes. Chastity was nuzzling against Stan's shins, and he knew he'd need to go over his corduroys with a lint roller as soon as he got up. All of this evaporated, however, as soon as Kyle dropped the two-trees bomb. "What the fuck could we possibly need _two_ for?"

"Do you _really_ want to know?"

"It's nothing weird, is it? It's not, like, some alien-death thing, is it? Because I can't take that right now, Kyle, I really can't."

Kyle soured on this. "Shit, sorry, didn't realize you were having such a hard fucking time deciding on a cornbread recipe." Stan shot him a look, and Kyle batted his eyelashes remorsefully, clearing his throat and continuing: "I wanted to do a theme tree, okay?"

"Oh, no." Stan sighed, and shut his cookbook. "Can you get any gayer?"

"Shhh, I'm talking. Where was I?"

"Theme tree."

"That's right," Kyle nodded. "I _wanted_ to do a theme tree. But, you know, I couldn't decide on a theme."

Stan rolled his eyes. "And those themes are…?"

"Winter wonderland," Kyle informed him. "And birds-and-fruits," he added quickly.

"Okay, winter wonderland, I understand. Like, what is that, a white tree? With white lights? And white stuff?" Kyle nodded. "But, this other thing, birds-and-fruits. I need clarification."

"It's exactly what it sounds like." Kyle smiled, trying to look appealing while he sold this idea. To his relief, Stan cracked a smile, too. Then, to his horror, Stan burst out laughing.

"That's ridiculous!" he cried out. "Oh, no, that's just _pathetic_. Birds and fruits? Who _are_ you? Where the fuck did you even _get_ that idea, a _Dynasty_ rerun or something? Like, I don't even know where you'd _find_ a bunch of fucking Christmas birds and Christmas fruits." Stan wiped his eyes. "I take back everything I've said about not being gayer than me, dude. This is _phenomenally _gay. This is, like, pink-sparkly-butt plug gay."

"Shut up!" Kyle crossed his arms. "It's really elegant, okay? I'm just trying to make things _classy_ around here."

"Yeah, because when I think _classy_, I think 'birds and fruits.' And how the hell do you explain the other one, the white supremacist power tree?"

"It's a _winter wonderland_ tree, and that one's just kitchy." Stan was still chuckling, and the cat had climbed into his lap. "Oh my god, it's supposed to be _fun_."

"Kyle's gone nuts, Chas," Stan said brightly, stroking white fur. "Don't make any sudden moves around him."

Kyle stood up and pushed his chair back toward the kitchen table. He pointed a finger at Stan accusingly. "I hope your cornbread is dry and collapses in the middle!"

"Yeah, okay," Stan laughed. "You have to eat it, too."

"I will have my two trees, damn you," Kyle seethed. "Then you'll see what's classy."

"Right, right," Stan kept chortling as Kyle stormed out. "Birds and fruits, dude."

"I hate you!" Kyle called behind himself.

Stan looked down at the cat. "Do you think I should tell Sheila about this?" he asked him. Chastity yawned, and hopped off his lap only to stalk out of the room after Kyle. "Yeah, I'm not sure it's such a great idea, either," he shrugged, slamming his hand on _The Joy of Cooking_. "Birds and fruits," he laughed again. "Oh, brother."

Shutting the cookbook, Stan got up and walked out of the kitchen. He ducked around the living room and the dining room, only to find Kyle sitting at his desk upstairs, obviously typing something.

"You're not pissed at me for making fun of your trees, are you?" he asked.

"What?" Kyle looked up, obviously distracted. He sighed, and scratched his head. "Look, I … I know it's stupid," he confessed. "But it makes me happy, okay? Why do you have to make fun of something that makes me happy?"

"I just think two trees is excessive, is all. Don't you?"

Kyle grinned. "Maybe a little."

Returning the smile, Stan bent over and pecked Kyle on the cheek. "I have something to tell you," he whispered.

Swallowing, Kyle tensed. "Can it wait? I mean, that doesn't sound good."

"No, it's fine," Stan swore. "Just, hear me out."

"Can't it wait? I'm kind of busy here, I'm trying to get some work done."

"Okay," Stan sighed in resignation. "I think you'd get more work done during the day if you weren't busy thinking about Christmas and jacking off."

"I've only done that that one time," Kyle scoffed.

"Whatever, honey." Stan squeezed Kyle's shoulders, and left him to work.

* * *

**Dec. 4**

"I have an objective," Kyle announced over dinner.

"I hope it's not getting me to get the cat shaved," Stan deadpanned. "Because, for the last time, he hates that, and I can't do that to him."

Kyle scoffed. "What? No. I love your furry cat, Stan. I love it like I love your furry ass."

"So … you're ambivalent about it?" Stan really wasn't sure what the hell Kyle was talking about. He was just trying to eat his linguine with clam sauce in peace, without any further discussion about Christmas, or the cat. Earlier that evening, in the middle of a particularly fraught bedroom makeout session, Chastity had come in and hopped on the bed. At this point in their relationship, Stan and Kyle had gotten used to the cat intruding on their sex life, such as it was.

This time, however, Chastity took the opportunity to get in between them, which was especially distracting, and then cough up a big hairball. If that wasn't disgusting enough — one hairball was all it took to send Kyle running to the shower and soften Stan's erection on contact — further inspection of said hairball revealed it to be comprised partially of hair, and partially of tinsel. When he got out of the shower, Kyle stepped into the bedroom with a towel draped over his shoulders, only to be greeted not with a conciliatory kiss, but with a protracted discussion about the correct and incorrect locations for tinsel placement.

"On the tree, fine," Stan instructed, "but for the love of god, keep it on the higher branches, okay? Like, maybe a couple of feet up from the bottom? Where the cat can't get to it?

"But that looks so stupid," Kyle protested.

"It looks stupid anyway!" was Stan's final assessment of the situation. "I don't know what kind of warped childhood you had that made you think a white fucking fake Christmas tree would look any stupider with tinsel unevenly distributed, but let me assure you, nothing could make your precious winter wondertree look any more retarded."

"I refuse to believe you don't know exactly what kind of warped childhood I was subjected to."

So now they were eating pasta, and Kyle was thankfully not discussing Stan's dismal opinion of his Christmas trees, plural, or the fact that their cat had ruined their last three attempts at hooking up by barfing regurgitated tinsel all over them. Now, however, Kyle seemingly had some new contrivance in mind.

Despite having met him on several occasions and finding him rather pleasant, Stan was really beginning to wish Jesus had never been born. Not that this Christmas bullshit had anything to do with _Jesus_, he had to remind himself. Kyle didn't worship Jesus. He had shellacked their front steps with fake show (redundant, really, since South Park was already as snowy as it was ever going to get, which was to say, incredibly snowy) not for Christ the lord and savior, but for some other reason, some feelings of childhood inadequacy, or something. Stan was still trying to figure it out, and was still no farther than 'Jews love Christmas.'

"Here," Kyle said unceremoniously after clearing Stan's pasta bowl. He fished something out of one of the kitchen drawers, and dumped it in Stan's lap.

Stan, after studying the cover, flipped through the book without enthusiasm and asked, "What the fuck is this?"

"A recipe book," Kyle told him. "_The 25 Best Christmas-Themed Martinis_."

"Twenty-five?" Stan exclaimed disbelievingly. "I can't think of _one_."

"Red food coloring," Kyle suggested.

"If that's what's in the book, I think you got ripped off."

"No, that is not what's in the book," Kyle snapped, snatching it out of Stan's hands. "You

just said you couldn't think of one."

"Why would I want to? The concept is revolting."

"Really?" Kyle asked. He sat back down at the table across from Stan. "A…" he began flipping through the pages. "…Gingerbreadtini doesn't sound good to you?"

"No. It does not."

"How about a Bethlehemtini?"

Stan looked at Kyle for a moment. Then he asked, "What the fuck is even in that?"

Kyle glanced down at the pages. "Pomegranate," he said slowly. "And … tahini. And gin."

"It just sounds bad," Stan decided. "Did you say you had an objective in mind with this?"

"Yeah, I did. I'm going to make every martini in this book before Christmas."

"Well." Stan stood up and stretched. "Good luck finding someone to drink them all, honey."

"Christmas dinner," Kyle informed him. "Everyone at Christmas dinner gets a different themed martini."

"Oh, I can see your parents _really_ going for that. For that matter, I can see _everyone_ being really into that. Who's not hot for a gross Christmastini?"

Kyle wasn't listening. "_Eggnogtini with a chocolate-lemon swizzle stick_," he read aloud. "_Brandy or rum with flavored vodka makes this drink perfect to share with that special someone. _I'll give you this, Stan, their copy is dismal."

"Whatever." Stan fidgeted, and sat back down. Reading across the table, he grabbed one of Kyle's wrists mid-page-turn. "Hey," he said softly. "Why don't you put that book down for a minute?"

"I know I'm a product of this horrible consumer culture," Kyle was saying. "But goddamnit, these martinis look amazing."

"Yes, amazingly bad, or amazingly gay, or a little of both. _Kyle._ We need to talk about something."

"What?" Kyle snapped, dropping the book. "Can't I have five minutes to think about Christmas martinis? It's not like I got to grow up drinking them like you did."

"Trust me, I didn't."

"Well, why must we talk _now_?"

"Because I'm so goddamn sick of having to complete for your attention with a holiday you shouldn't even be celebrating!"

"Don't tell me what to celebrate," Kyle insisted. "I am so sick of being told what I can and cannot get off on."

"I want you to get off on anything your little heart desires. But we really, really need to talk." Stan paused. "_Really_."

"I don't want to get dumped over the holidays," Kyle moaned. "Can't it wait until after?"

"Well, it could, but I don't—"

Kyle got up. "Excellent."

"I'm not dumping you, Kyle, it's good, I just want you to listen to me instead of thinking about Christmas every damn moment."

"After Christmas," Kyle said reassuringly, putting his arms around Stan's neck. "You may have all of my love and attention and oral skills after Christmas is over. Or until Chastity stops coughing up tinsel. Whichever comes first." After a kiss to Stan's temple, Kyle left the room.

"Well, godammit," he sighed, smacking the table.

* * *

**Dec. 18**

When Stan got home that night, he found Kyle watching _Iron Chef_ and inexplicably sewing something — no, he was threading something. On closer inspection, it appeared to be cranberries. Stan thought this was weird, but he told himself that his boyfriend probably had a good explanation for this. Well, more likely, probably a Christmas explanation.

To get Kyle's attention away from the cranberry garland, Stan cleared his throat.

"Oh, hey," Kyle said brightly, noticing Stan. "I didn't hear you come in." He gestured to the couch with his elbow, which was awkward, and didn't stop stringing berries. "How was your day?"

"It was totally fine and completely normal," Stan said as he settled into the couch. "My day warrants absolutely no discussion whatsoever."

"Ah." Kyle was obviously back to paying attention to his string of berries and the television.

"But now that I'm home," Stan continued, "we seriously, seriously need to talk."

"Okay." Another cranberry was impaled by Kyle's needle. "About what?"

"Um." Noticing the remote control on the floor, Stan bent over and picked it up, only to switch off the TV.

"Hey!" Kyle yelped. "That was Battle Eggnog! You can't just turn that off!"

"How many things can they make out of eggnog?"

"Oh." Kyle thought for a moment, and while he was thinking he strung another two cranberries. "Well, at least 10. I mean, it's not like it's 10 kinds of eggnog, it just has to use eggnog as an ingredient."

"Kyle, please. I _really_ need to talk to you."

"So, talk."

"No. I mean, can you please stop making that garland for five minutes?"

"All right!" Kyle dropped the string of cranberries on the floor, sighed in exasperation, and crossed his arms. "Okay, Stan. Go ahead. Talk."

Without beginning a sentence, Stan took Kyle's hand. "I have something to tell you," he began. "Because, you know, I've been thinking a lot lately."

Kyle rolled his eyes. "You couldn't wait until after _Iron Chef_ to propose?"

"Kyle," Stan sighed. He let go of Kyle's hand. "Why are you making this so difficult? I have something really important to tell you."

"Well, I'm listening. So please, go ahead."

"Okay, thank you." Stan took a deep breath, and grabbed Kyle's hand again. "We've been together for a while now, right?"

"Long as I've ever been with anyone. You know, longer than I was with Jo—"

"And we know that this … this is _forever_, isn't it?"

"It had better be," Kyle agreed.

"And we've talked about, you know … children."

"Sure, honey. In like, eight years. Whatever you say."

Stan swallowed. His throat had suddenly gone dry. And yet, he felt sort of … confident. He smiled. "I want to convert."

Kyle shrugged. "To what, the metric system?"

"No." Stan licked his lips. "To, um … Judaism."

There followed an unprecedented awkward silence, probably the longest of Stan's life.

It ended when Kyle jerked away from Stan, blinked, and cried out, "Excuse me?" in a tone that approached falsetto.

Wasting no time, Stan jumped right into an explanation: "I mean, we've been together for, like, what, a few years—"

"Six."

"—six years, and I think that's a really long time. We moved in together, we're for all practical purposes married, or about as married as two guys are gonna get in Colorado." Stan beamed at this sentiment. Kyle tried to bury his face in his bowl of cranberries. Unfortunately, cranberries were not porous enough to breathe through. To Kyle's horror, Stan kept going: "I think this is for life, you know? And if we're going to be together forever, which we will, it's just time we started thinking about practical shit."

Kyle was trembling. "Practical shit?"

"Yeah, you know. Like babies."

"Babies?" Kyle swallowed. "It's like 90 degrees in here. Why is it like 90 degrees in here?"

"You have the thermostat set to 74."

"Why does 74 suddenly feel like 90?"

Stan gave his shaking boyfriend an odd glance. Something was wrong. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"No." Kyle took the bowl off his lap and set it on the floor. "Stan," he breathed, grabbing both of Stan's hands. "Do you realize what you're talking about?"

"Uh, yeah." Stan smiled, wide. "I want to be a Jew."

Kyle dropped Stan's hands. "Well, I don't think you should!"

"Okay. Why not?"

"You haven't thought this out."

"No, I have. I've been thinking about it for a long time."

"And you're just telling me now?"

"I've been trying! I didn't want to get your hopes up," Stan confessed. "I mean, what if I started looking into it, and it wasn't for me?"

"I don't care if it's for you. I really don't. I don't want you converting to Judaism, Stan. No."

Stan rolled his eyes. "You can't tell me what religion to be."

Kyle sighed, and tried to think about this for a moment. "No," he finally decided. "If you're thinking about converting to Judaism for me, I think you're out of your fucking mind. You know how you're Catholic? Stay Catholic. It's a perfectly good faith. Sure, there's an unsettling amount of vampiric cannibalism, and you people take orders from a half-deified rabbit, but it works, godammit. You can't just abandon that shit."

"I'm not 'just abandoning' it," Stan replied, with little air quotes. "I've been _thinking_ about abandoning it since we moved in together. You know how we're always talking about kids? I don't want them to be half-Catholic. I want to raise them Jewish. You're Jewish, I want to be Jewish." Stan stopped speaking, and then sighed, and then started talking again: "You know, I really thought this was going to make you happy. I mean, what do you want from me? Do you want to convert to Catholicism?"

"No," Kyle replied very hastily. "Absolutely not. I want my children to be Jews, thank you."

For Stan, this was the final straw. "Well, then I don't understand! What could we possibly be losing by me being Jewish?"

Shutting his eyes, as if the twinkling lights around them were physically painful and he could no longer stand to look at them, Kyle sighed. "What about your … you know."

"My what?"

"Your…" Kyle pointed at Stan's crotch. "You _know_."

"My what, my groin?"

Kyle nodded. "Your foreskin," he whispered. "What about it?"

"Oh." Stan was relieved to have some idea of what Kyle was talking about. "Well, you know, Jews are circumcised."

"No!" Almost in shock, Kyle's hand flew to his mouth. Slowly, he dropped it, and whimpered, "Please?"

"Please what?"

"Please don't cut off your foreskin?"

Stan bunched his mouth together. This was such an odd conversation. At least it wouldn't get much odder. He hoped. "It's just a foreskin, dude," he said dismissively. "I mean, if I can suck it up and get part of my cock cut off, you can suck it up and, uh … learn how to suck a cut cock, I guess."

"I've sucked cut cock," Kyle asserted. He was seeming a little calmer now, but Stan was still trying to err on the side of caution, and not chance it.

"Don't remind me," Stan said nervously.

"It's just … it's part of you. When I think about you, I think about your dick. I mean, your _whole_ dick. It's like, part of my fantasies. You can't just get it cut off."

"Well, actually, you can." Stan coughed. "And I'm gonna."

"But what about the thing?" Kyle asked. "The thing that I like?"

"Well, there are like a million things two guys can do in bed; it's not like our sex life is riding on my lack of circumcision."

"It was to me!"

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, Jesus. You're such a weirdo. Most guys _prefer_ a cut cock. You know that, right? Like, I had guys in college take one look at me and then change their minds."

"Well, that must have sucked."

"Sure it did," Stan agreed. "But not nearly as much as this conversation."

Kyle crossed his arms, and made a very displeased face. "You just don't understand," he moaned. "You don't appreciate your own religion, because you never had to go without it."

"I don't fucking get what you're trying to say here," Stan confessed. This just made Kyle angry.

"Christmas, Stan!" he burst out. "You fucking spent your whole fucking life celebrating Christmas! I was the weird little Jew kid at school, I never got to have Christmas. You can't just walk away from that! I went my whole life without it, and then I got just a little taste of it, and now you want to take it away from me! It's not fair!"

Stan put a hand over his mouth to keep from exposing his reaction to Kyle. Truthfully, he didn't know how he felt, but he was getting that awkward smile he got sometimes when he just didn't know how to react, that smile that often made the person he was talking to feel like a weirdo, which he didn't want to do right now. So he took a deep breath, and removed his hand, and said: "Well, you can still celebrate Christmas. It's part of my family. I'm not going to stop you."

This made Kyle look even more miserable. "But the only reason I can do it is because of you!"

"Because of me?"

"I'm Jewish, remember?"

"I assure you, I could _never_ forget."

"Well, Jews don't celebrate Christmas!"

Stan rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously, they do."

"No, they don't! The only reason I can get away with it is because my boyfriend celebrates it, but if you convert to Judaism neither of us will be Christian and then we'll just have to have Hannukah like losers!"

"I think Hannukah is a nice holiday," Stan said soothingly. "It's got all those pretty candles. And gambling."

"Yeah, it's fine. But it's not fucking Christmas!"

"Well, this isn't really my problem." Stan sighed, and got off the couch. "Your religion-related neuroses don't have anything to do with _me_. You want our kids to be Jewish, when we have some?"

"If you think there was ever a chance that my children would be raised any way other than Jewish, Stan, you are sadly mistaken."

"I never thought that," Stan agreed, nodding along with his sentiments. "In fact, if you recall, we are having this discussion because I want to _convert to Judaism_. What kind of Jewish kids have one Catholic dad and celebrate Christmas?"

"Jewish kids who know in their hearts they're Jewish and have bar mitzvahs and lie to their rabbi about keeping kosher and fast on Yom Kippur, but, for one month out of the year, sing Christmas carols and decorate gingerbread men and wake up on December 25 and open presents and are happy. And don't feel so left out when the other kids at school want to catch snowflakes on their tongues. But who wake up on December 26 and go to Hebrew school."

"Okay, Kyle." Stan sighed again. He was standing there, looking down at Kyle's bowl of cranberries, feeling like the biggest jackass in the world, even though he could swear he wasn't. "Look, you can do whatever you want. I _like_ Christmas. It's fine. It's fun. I'm not, like, _obsessed_ with it, but my family's Catholic, and there you go. But if we're going to be together, and planning on raising children, I want to convert. I've been talking to a rabbi, and your mom said—"

"Wait," Kyle hissed. "What did you say?"

"I've been talking to your rabbi—"

"No! The other thing."

"Your mom said?"

"Yes. Yes, tell me what my _mom_ said."

"Oh." Stan swallowed. "You know, we were talking, and she suggested it — this was like months ago — and I started thinking about it in concrete terms, and that's what I want. Okay?"

Kyle's jaw was hanging open, and his eyes were twitching. He tried to compose himself. "You've been _talking to my mom_?" he gasped.

"Well, yeah. She's been taking me out to lunch."

"To talk about converting?"

Stan nodded.

Kyle stood up and cried, "That bitch!" Stan noticed several cranberries tumble out of his crotch; even more had obviously been pressed into the couch by his ass.

"It's nothing sinister," Stan tried to explain. "She just gave me, you know, the guidance I needed."

"No, she did not," Kyle hissed. "This is meddling, Stan, _meddling_. Bitchy, intrusive, uninvited _meddling_!"

"Jesus, I never met a guy who was more touchy about me getting along with his _mom_ before," Stan said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Then he saw Kyle's livid expression, and he added, "But who cares about that? The upshot is, we'll be Jews together now."

"You don't get it, Stan! I want my fucking Christmas, and I will not let it go without a fight!"

"Well, I don't want to fight with you. I don't care, like I said, about Christmas. Have or it don't have it, it's fine."

"Oh, I'm not looking to fight with _you_," Kyle seethed. "I'm going to give that bitch a piece of my mind."

"No, Kyle," Stan sighed. "She doesn't deserve it, don't do _that_."

"You can't stop me, Stan!" he shouted, barging out of the room.

XXX

Kyle had forgotten that most calls to his mother did not result in _him_ giving _her_ a piece of _his_ mind, but the exact opposite.

"It's just completely unacceptable," Sheila was lecturing, really letting her controlling nature take the helm on this one. "Jews do not celebrate Christmas, Kyle."

"I do!" Kyle protested.

"And it's completely unacceptable! What did I teach you, to so publicly flaunt your lack of religiosity? Jews don't advertise that we don't follow the rules! How else do you think we get away with acting so indignant about all the injustices we've suffered, large and small?"

"I know all that," Kyle snapped. "If it really disturbed you, you could have just said something."

"This is about more than just Christmas. What will you do when you start your family? Let the children think this is acceptable?"

"It's as acceptable as I want it to be! I'll raise them Jewish, but I am _not_ going to let my children grow up without Christmas like I did. It was horrible, do you hear me? Every December of my life was _misery_ until I started dating Stan. Do you really think I was happy playing dreidel and lighting candles? I'm gay, mom! I like _sparkles_!"

"So put up a disco ball."

"What? No! That's fucking faggy!"

"So what makes a disco ball … you know, the F-word, but not Christmas?"

"Christmas by its very nature is faggy!" Kyle informed his mother. "Even when straight people do it it's faggy. It's like an excuse. Not to mention that I was a child, and I had to endure my best friend being faggy without me, when that was all I really wanted."

"You were never a very, well … you know, that kind of kid."

"I'm not really that kind of adult, either, but that doesn't mean I don't want to have a nice, sparkly, faggy Christmas just like everyone else! And when I finally find a way to do it, you can't keep your fat mouth shut, and try to take it away from me! _Why_?"

"Don't be accusing to your mother, Kyle."

"Don't be meddling in my personal life, Mom!"

Sheila took a deep breath. "Maybe you don't appreciate it now, baby, but you'll appreciate it when you're older, and you have a family, and lovely adopted Jewish children, you'll understand how important it is that I meddled. All Jews love Christmas, Kyle. _Is it in our nature_. We all grow up envying our neighbors. Well, your father did, he's from around here, not like me, we only socialized with other Jews when I was growing up in Brooklyn. But you think anyone likes getting dreidels? No one likes dreidels. _No one_."

"Stan does, Mother! He wants to play dreidel for the rest of his life now, do you know how depressing that is?" Kyle groaned. "Stan's not stupid. But he doesn't think with his brain, he thinks with his heart. Why did you interfere? I was so happy with things like they were."

Sheila snorted. "Of course you were happy, with your little gentile boy. I am trying to do you a favor here. I will not have my son in a relationship with a Catholic. Either of them."

"Well, then why did you set me up with him?"

"I hardly was trying to set you up _romantically_! You're old friends, you moved back to Colorado, you were lonely, Sharon suggested I give you Stan's number because he was living in the city too, okay? That's all! I didn't expect you to start sniffing around each other _like that_, and I certainly wouldn't have gone along with it if I knew he was gay at the time! You were just so lonely when you moved back here, and … I don't even know why you moved back here, anyway! You had a perfectly respectable life in New York! You were with a nice Jewish boy! Why didn't you stay with him?"

This made Kyle angry — really, really angry. "Why didn't I stay with him?" he sputtered. "Because he dumped me, Mom! You called up Josh and started lecturing him about making me an 'honest boy' and he got scared and _dumped me_! And I couldn't take it and I moved back to Colorado! And it's all your fucking fault for never keeping your fucking mouth shut and staying out of my personal life! Why don't you just … just fuck off for once, Mom, okay?"

Sheila gasped. "I … I never knew that," she said very softly. But she continued with her voice trembling: "I'm sorry, Kyle. I never meant for you to get your heart broken."

"It hurt, okay? Finding Stan again was the best thing to ever happen to me. Meeting him, like, _saved_ me."

"And I'm so glad you're with him, because he's a wonderful man, and I can see he makes you happy."

"He does!"

"…but, Kyle. He's not _Jewish_."

"Well, screw who's Jewish! I met a man who wasn't Jewish, and I fell in love. It happens! This isn't, like, Israel! For that matter, it's not New York! There are basically no Jews here. How was I supposed to find one?"

"I hear the synagogue has a group for alternative lifestyles," Sheila suggested.

"No. That's how I met Josh, remember?"

"Oh, right."

"I just wish you could have left it alone, alright?" Kyle's voice became very tight. "I like Stan how he _is_, not how _you_ want him to be."

"He'll still be the same man. Just, you'll have to stop celebrating Christmas. And no more foreskin."

"That's another thing. I _like_ his foreskin! I think it's hot, okay! _I like that he's not Jewish_."

"Well, Kyle," Sheila huffed. "I think you should ask yourself, why do you like that he's not Jewish?"

This struck Kyle oddly. He'd never really thought about it. "I … I don't know," he admitted.

"Well, think about it."

"You still shouldn't have fucking interfered in my life," Kyle choked out.

"Think about it," Sheila said mysteriously. Then she hung up.

XXX

Kyle wandered into the kitchen in a daze. He knew his mother had won — the battle, if not the war, since he'd allowed her to get the last word in. Stan was at the stove, cooking something in a pot. Kyle wasn't hungry, so instead of doing what he usually did when Stan was cooking — asking him what it was, and poking his nose in whatever was on the stove — Kyle fell into a chair, and put his head in his hands at the table. The fact that the table was dressed in a candy cane-patterned tablecloth was not lost on him. He was the one who'd been putting it on the table every morning.

Stan whipped around from the stove, turning the temperature on the burner down. They both cooked, but Stan was inarguably better at it. This didn't make Kyle bad at it, but even he wasn't too proud to admit that Stan could best him at things. "Hi," Stan said very gently, approaching the table. "I, uh, heard you yelling."

"Yeah," Kyle said foggily, raising his head. "Why does she have to be such a bitch?"

"She's not a bitch, dude, she's ..."

Kyle made a disbelieving face at that.

"Okay," Stan continued, sitting down next to his boyfriend. "She's a bitch. But, you know, she's just looking out for her son. She isn't doing it just to annoy you."

"She never learns," Kyle sighed. "Do we have anything to drink?"

"I can make you a Peppermintini," Stan suggested.

"That's okay, I'm not in the mood. Just a regular martini, please."

So, Stan made drinks while he talked, allowing whatever was on the stove to simmer. "I want you to know, this is really something I want," he said. "It's not just your mom, it's something that's been on my mind since we met, or met again, or … whatever." Stan handed Kyle his drink. "Dirty, how you like it," he said jovially.

"Thanks," Kyle said miserably, taking his martini in hand. "I'm not really in the mood for lame sex jokes."

"Well, then." Stan paused to sit down, and have a sip of gin and tonic. "What about lame sex?"

Kyle sighed. "My mother is right, Stan, there is something wrong with me. I'm with a wonderful man who wants to convert for me, and I can't just smile and say 'thank you' and be happy."

"Well, don't feel too bad about yourself. You're too intelligent to just take it. You can't be happy just accepting things. For that matter, you know, part of what I love about you is your…" Stan trailed off. He hunched his shoulders, and had some more of his drink. He straightened out again, and smacked his lips. "…feistiness?" he concluded in uncertainty.

"It's not so great," Kyle said glumly. He realized he hadn't been drinking his martini nearly seriously enough, and got to work on that.

"I think it's great."

"Thanks." There was a moment of silence. Then, Kyle added: "I like your willingness to put up with me. Is that a horrible thing to say? That I just like that you're here?"

"Well, I hope there was something more to it in the beginning. But yeah." Stan paused to think. "Yeah, I agree. What we have is very … comfortable. I never really dated anyone, not seriously. I think I was always sort of holding out for you, honestly."

"That's ridiculous, Stan. How could you have liked me before we went to college? You weren't even gay in high school."

"Of course I was gay in high school."

"But you had that girlfriend." Kyle snapped his fingers as he tried to remember her name. "You know, what's-her-face, with the boob job. You know who I'm thinking of."

"Yeah." Stan fidgeted. "Black-haired chick, huge tits."

"Well, they were totally fake."

"Were they?" Stan shrugged. "I can't remember."

"How could you not remember?"

"I don't know, I don't remember."

"You must have seen them! Can't you tell fake tits when you see them?"

"I don't know, honey, look at me. Do I look like the sort of guy who knows a fake tit from a regular tit?"

"I always thought you were that kind of guy, yes!" Kyle crossed his arms and rolled his eyes.

Stan smiled, and shrugged. "Sorry," he said amicably. "I don't know what I was doing in high school."

"Banging chicks," Kyle insisted.

"Well, yeah. But, also, sitting behind the bleachers with you getting high and talking about old cartoons."

Kyle slumped his shoulders. "I just wish you would have told me you were gay, is all," he said sadly.

"Why?" Stan asked.

"Well, so I could have jumped you," Kyle said. "Just think, now you're going to get your foreskin cut off, and I could have been enjoying it for twice as long as I have been."

"I don't think so," Stan countered. "I think we had to go off separately to come back together."

"Well, whatever the case, I'm glad I found you again, very glad."

"I'm glad, too."

"Even if you are a dick-mutilating, religion-changing bastard."

"Well, what are you going to do?" Stan stood up, and walked over to Kyle, and took one of his hands, the one not clutching an empty martini glass. "Come on," he said enthusiastically. "Come upstairs with me."

"What for?" Kyle asked.

"I don't know how long it'll take to convert," Stan admitted. "I think you have to pass a test. But I'm not exactly looking forward to the surgery, you know. So, maybe we should make use of the time we have before I can't use my dick for six to eight weeks?"

"Well, okay," Kyle agreed, standing up. "But I'm still seriously pissed about this!" he continued to complain on the way out of the kitchen. "And my mom is still a huge cunt, and I'm still not sure what to do about Christmas. God, I'm so pissed at her."

"Yeah, I would be too. You know what, it's wonderful that my parents never try to get in the middle of these things."

"I know." Kyle sighed. "The worst thing is, there's nothing I can even do about this whole thing. It's like, you know, a stalemate. I mean, what should I do?" Kyle cupped his chin. "I guess I could leave you," he said in a ponderous tone. Then he shuddered.

"I hope you won't."

"You know I won't."

Stan continued to tug Kyle along, through the living room and up the stairs. "And now I can't even really look forward to Christmas," Kyle continued moaning. "I hate being in situations like this. I mean, Christmas is ruined, _and_ I feel completely impotent."

"Well, we can still do Christmas," Stan suggested. "I mean, now that you've wasted all that time and energy on putting up two trees."

"I don't even want to think about it."

"Just worry about it tomorrow," Stan suggested. "Besides, you're hardly impotent. I'll suck all the Christmas right out of you, I promise."

Kyle blushed. "If you insist."

* * *

**Dec. 19**

Kyle wasn't supposed to make personal calls when he was on the clock. But that had never stopped him before, and hey — what was the upside to working from home if he didn't break all the rules? He tried to excuse his misdemeanor with the logic that this was a sudden realization, an epiphany. All of his rationale was quickly forgotten when Kenny picked up.

"Hello?" he asked groggily.

"Kenny!" Kyle spat out, just excited past the point of annoyingness. "Do you know what _shiksappeal_ is?"

"Um." Kenny paused. "What is that? Is that Yiddish?"

"Close! It's _Yinglish_."

"What is that, is that like a—"

"—combination of Yiddish and English!" Kyle helpfully filled in the blank.

"Oh." There was another awkward paused. Kenny blinked, but Kyle didn't hear this over the phone. "I don't … no, I don't know what this Shakespearepeal is that you speak of."

Kyle sighed heavily. "No, retard. _Shiksappeal_."

"Yeah, okay. I still don't know what you're talking about."

"It's a quality that a non-Jewish woman has that makes a Jewish man attracted to her."

"Mmhmmm," Kenny agreed, nodding, his chin brushing against the receiver, which Kyle actually could hear.

"And in Yiddish, a non-Jewish girl is called a 'shiksa.' "

"Wow. Well, you learn some Yiddish everyday, don't you? I mean, I do. I bet you know all the Yiddish you're ever going to know."

"Oh, I don't know that much," Kyle confessed. "Just the basics. But that's really not the point. So, shiksappeal, it's when a Jewish man likes a gentile lady. What I want to know is, what if the lady is a dude? And the … uh, dude … is also a, um … dude," he finished nervously.

"Dude. I'm really just your drug dealer."

"You're my only friend in South Park."

"That's because you're an anti-social nerd, and your boyfriend's friends all live where they work, which is in the city."

"This is irrelevant. What I need to know is, do you think it's possible that I was attracted to Stan because he's not a Jew?"

"What?" Kenny sighed. "Look, Kyle. I'm not a Jew, I'm not a gay, and I'm definitely not a psychotherapist. Why don't you ask your mother or something?"

"She's the bitch who got me into this mess!" Kyle cried. "Please, Kenny. I really need someone to talk to."

"You want to talk to me? Buy an ounce, then I'll come over and drop it off and you can talk to me while I'm weighing it out."

"That's so fucked up! I've known you since I was how old? And you're going to basically manipulate me into buying drugs to come over so I can discuss my deep personal problems?"

"What can I say? I'm a scumbag. You want drugs, or not? It's basically therapy, anyway. What's the harm?"

"Ugh, Kenny. I'm hanging up now."

"Suit yourself," Kenny told him. Kyle hung up.

XXX

Kenny might have been a scumbag, but he was a scumbag with a conscience, which was why, two hours later, he was walking to Kyle and Stan's house, sans drugs, looking kind of guilty and disgusted.

"Thanks for coming," Kyle said genuinely. He had opened the door with one hand, as he was holding the cat in his other arm. Under the glow of the thousand or so Christmas lights by the front door, Kyle's pale skin looked especially golden.

"Yeah, well, you can thank me with your continued loyalty to my enterprise."

"I think you like me."

"Trust me," Kenny assured him. "I do not."

"I don't mean in a gay way." Kyle gritted his teeth. "I mean like a friend."

"Whatever." Kenny shrugged. "You wanna put the cat down? He's looking at me with those creepy eyes."

"He's not creepy." Kyle pushed Chastity into Kenny's face. "He's happy to see you. See?"

The cat did not seem happy to see Kenny. The cat seemed like he was mewling and struggling to get out of Kyle's grasp.

"That cat is really gay."

"You say that every time you come over," Kyle pointed out.

"That cat is _really_ ugly," Kenny continued. "What the fuck is wrong with it?"

"If you've been told once, you've been told a thousand times, there's nothing _wrong_ with him. Chastity's a Persian, and that's what they look like."

"Chastity's a really stupid name."

"Oh, see?" Kyle put down the howling animal, who hissed at Kenny, and ran away. "You're just pissing him off."

"_Cats don't get pissed off_," Kenny gritted out. "_They're fucking cats_."

"Just don't make fun of the cat anymore, okay? It's not like I don't know it's a stupid cat, it's _Stan's_ cat, and it's only Stan's cat because he has a heart of gold." Kyle paused, and frowned. "Kind of."

Kenny wasn't moved by this information at all. He'd heard the whole story before, and it didn't negate the gayness of the cat at all, in his opinion. "So, now that you dragged me away from playing kickball with these high school girls, which was what I was _supposed_ to be doing this afternoon, what's got your pink panties in a twist, princess?"

"Follow me into the kitchen," Kyle said as he backed away toward that destination, "and I'll tell you all about it."

After making Kenny a HoHo Mint Mochatini, Kyle unleashed a tidal wave of ranting. Kenny sat there sipping his brown cocktail, listening to Kyle rant and rave about his mom and apparently Stan's cock, although Kenny was trying to block that part out.

When Kyle was finished, Kenny cleared his throat and said, "This homo mocha thing is delicious. What did you say was in it?"

"It's chocolate liqueur, Kahlua … ugh, Kenny, will you just be a friend and give me some advice?"

"Oh, you don't want my advice, it probably involves playing kickball with a bunch of 14-year-old girls."

Kyle began rubbing his temples. "Kenny…"

"Look, I'm trying, dude! I got no idea what to say about your predicament. So, you're into guys who aren't Jewish. Congrats! Do you want a medal? Do you want some pot? Because I will sell you some pot. I've been working at Caribou on the weekends, I can get you free biscotti. … Come to think of it, did you steal this recipe from them? Because I'm pretty sure they sell the same drink, without booze."

"No, it's from a book I got at … godammit, stop changing the subject! I just want you to listen and be supportive!"

"Supportive. Oh my god, could you get any gayer?"

"Yes, I could go put on a tiara. No. What am I supposed to do about Stan?"

Kenny thought for a moment. "Um…" He took another sip of homo mocha booze. "I think you should just let him do it, dude." Kyle's eyes widened when he heard that, but Kenny continued: "You know, I've never had a relationship. And I've _definitely_ never been Jewish. But, it seems to me, that if he wants to convert to Judaism, you shouldn't try to stop him."

"But," Kyle moaned. "But it's not like he's so into Judaism. He just wants to do it for me."

Kenny looked at Kyle for a long moment, and then he burst forth with, "Listen to yourself, man! You've found a guy who wants to _change religions_ for you. He practically _worships_ you, and you're trying to fight him. Just let him do it, okay? God, are all gay people so ridiculous with the non-existent problems?"

"I'm not going to dignify _that_ with a response. Just, look, I know I'm overreacting a _little_, maybe, but … the problem is so complex. It's also about my mom, and how she won't keep her fucking crazy-huge nose out of my life."

"I wouldn't insult her nose, dude, considering you've definitely inherited it." Kenny tried to give Kyle a whimsical grin, but he immediately sobered up when Kyle shot him a death glare. "All right, shit, _sorry_."

"She ruined my only other relationship, do you know that?"

"Yeah, I think I remember you bitching about it at some point during the past five years."

"Well, it's pretty sad, isn't it? I mean, I love Stan, but I won't lie; getting to celebrate Christmas is like the icing on the—"

"Potato pancake?"

"No, Kenny, _cake_. The phrase is 'icing on the cake.' "

"Well, excuse me for being funny."

"Trust me," Kyle said stonily. "You're not funny."

Kenny shrugged, and fiddled with the empty martini glass in front of him. "Well, I don't get the problem still. You get a Jewish guy, you get to celebrate Christmas — which, I should warn you, actual Christians are really just _annoyed_ by Christmas…"

"No, you don't get it! I _don't_ get Christmas! If Stan goes through with this and becomes a Jew, we won't have any reason to celebrate it!"

"Well, maybe he doesn't care," Kenny suggested.

"He doesn't!" Kyle confirmed, excited. "But _I _do! _I_ care! What do you think my mom would say?"

"Something obnoxious?"

"She'd be pissed!"

Kenny sighed, and looked at his watch. "This is really beyond my expertise as a drug dealer-cum-barista," he said in resignation. "Thanks for the gaytini, it was great."

"Kenny, wait!" Kyle cried, rushing after his guest as the disgruntled Kenny stomped off toward the front door. "I'm not done whining yet!"

Struggling with his scarf, Kenny frowned. "Yes, and therein lies the problem, guy. You will _never_ be done whining, because happiness is some kind of weird goal or endpoint for you."

Kyle pursed his lips and shut his eyes, thinking for a moment. He opened them again. To Kenny, he looked like the cat when he did this. Sensibly, he didn't say anything about that. "Isn't happiness our common goal?"

"I don't know." Kenny was pulling on his gloves. "But maybe you should just do what-fucking-ever, and leave the soul-searching for someone older or more miserable. You know?"

"Honestly? No."

Kenny smacked his forehead with a gloved hand. "How dense can you be, dude? If you want to celebrate Christmas, fucking celebrate Christmas! Who gives a shit?"

"I appreciate the sentiment," Kyle said nervously. He was leaning against the wall, arms and legs both crossed. "I also appreciate Stan how he is."

"Well, then dump him and go find a new guy."

"I don't want that either!"

"Well, see, this is why I don't want to drop everything I'm doing and just come over and talk through things with you, you're completely impossible."

"You weren't _doing_ anything," Kyle pointed out. "You were sleeping."

"It doesn't matter, you're still an asshole." Kenny reached out for the door knob.

"Wait!"

Kenny rolled his eyes, and let go of the door. "You have two minutes," he warned.

"Do you know was cock-docking is?" Kyle asked.

"No."

"It's when one man who is circumcised puts the head of his cock, or as much as he can, really, inside of another man's foreskin."

Kenny cringed. "Okay, I didn't need to know that."

"Yes, you do." Kyle sighed, and uncrossed his arms. "Stan and I don't really have sex."

"Well, this is a lot of fretting over someone you don't even fuck, then."

"No, I just mean we don't have _proper_ sex. But we do other things. I like to do this docking thing."

"You're making me nauseous. Is there any reason I need to know this?"

"Yeah." Kyle shifted his weight, and stepped away from the wall. "If Stan converts he'll be circumcised, and then we won't be able to dock anymore."

"Kyle." Kenny grabbed the other man by his shoulders. "You need a gay friend. Not Stan, someone else. Someone who isn't me to tell these problems to. Also, you need to tell your mother to fuck off. Also, you need to get a life."

"Noted, and I agree."

"But seriously." Kenny had by now managed to get the door open. "Do yourself a favor and chill the fuck out."

"Merry Christmas!" Kyle screamed after his friend out the open door. "I hope you get that prosthetic testicle you wanted!" He slammed the door shut, and whirled around, only to see Chastity sitting on the staircase with a mouse dangling precariously from his fangs. "Oh, you dumb cat," he said mournfully. "Stan's not here."

Daintily, the cat tread on his funny paws over to Kyle's feet, where he dropped the mouse, nuzzled Kyle's shins, and proceeded to roll over onto his back.

XXX

"What is this?" Stan held up the sheet of torn notebook paper for Kyle to see.

Kyle, who was hunched over the computer, looked up, and then grinned, and then turned back to the computer. "Oh, that." Kyle hit the spacebar rather angrily a few times. "That would be a list of what I want for Christmas. Or Hannukah. Or both."

"Yeah, I know, I can tell. Hence the title, 'Get Kyle the Following for Christmas and/or Hannukah,' " which, indeed, Kyle had scrawled at the top of the list.

"Well, it's pretty straightforward."

"Straightforward, maybe, but this shit you want is ridiculous. Like, pest control? We don't have pests."

"We have mice," Kyle said succinctly. Then, in great Kyle fashion, he elaborated on that. "I know we never see them, but your cat manages to find them all right."

"Okay." Stan mentally made a note about that. "But, three ounces of marijuana?"

"That's right, three."

"A ski trip to the Poconos."

"I've never been to the Poconos," Kyle explained.

"But you can go skiing in the backyard."

"It's not the same."

"I'm not going to tell your mother to fuck off for you," Stan continued.

"But she's an interfering bitch."

Stan ignored this. "I'm also not going to do this one, 'Don't convert.' Nice try."

"Fuck." Kyle stopped typing, and pushed his chair away from the desk. He swiveled around, arms crossed, to look up at Stan. "That was the one I wanted the most."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes. "Kyle, you're adorable."

"Oh, thanks."

"But you're driving me _nuts_." Stan dropped his hand and opened his eyes. "I know when I'm being manipulated. And no one's saying your mom's _not_ crazy. Trust me, she's crazy. But this is something I want to do. Do you really think if I didn't, she would have been able to talk me into it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, that's flattering."

"Well, come on! She single-handedly destroyed my last relationship!"

"Well, maybe that goddamn relationship was on its last legs, anyway. I mean, you're the one who told me you wouldn't move to Massachusetts with him!"

"What's the point of moving to Massachusetts?" Kyle asked. "I have a right not to move there."

"They have gay marriage, and great seafood."

"I am a Jew," Kyle sniffed. "I don't eat seafood."

"Oh, please, you eat seafood all the time. You had shrimp for lunch. I saw the shells in the garbage."

"This is going nowhere! My point is, that woman chased off the only other guy I was ever in love with. It's infuriating to me that she would try to fuck it up with another one, and it's _more_ infuriating that you're suggesting that I fucked things up with Josh and that my fat bitch whore of a mom had nothing to do with it."

"Okay, sorry. But I'm _also_ suggesting that maybe, just maybe, these relationships have been more in your control than you're giving yourself credit for. I mean, so the last one didn't work out. That was like seven years ago now. You're with _me_, and I don't like you for who your parents are." Stan cocked his head. "Because if that were the case I'd be a pretty sad man, right?"

Kyle put his hands over his ears in protest. "I cannot have this conversation any longer. It's so much more complex than all this."

"Well, things in life are psychological. What do you want from me?"

Kyle took his hands off of his ears. "Honestly?"

Stan nodded. "Honestly."

"I never want you to leave me. But I also never want you to change."

Stan grabbed the doorframe. Standing on the threshold of Kyle's office, he said, "You know that's ludicrous."

"Maybe so," Kyle agreed. "But I'm a lame guy."

"Well, I can't promise either of those things," Stan clasped his hands. "But I can promise to try."

"Well, I appreciate that," Kyle shrugged. He turned back to the computer. "What I don't appreciate are these complaint e-mails I keep getting about the Christmas tree-shaped cursor I put on the website."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Apparently it disappears when you move it too fast. Also, it's 'obstructive,' whatever that means."

"Are you going to take it off?"

"No. Why would I do that? It's only a week until Christmas. And besides, I run this website like I run my life: I'm leaving this baby up until the day after New Year's."

* * *

**December 26**

"I hope you know," Stan said perfectly pleasantly, poker in the fire, "that we will be eating leftover goose well into January."

"No, we are not," Kyle moaned. He was slouching on the living room couch; the cat was resting half in his crotch, and half on his middle. "That goose was _disgusting_. I'm throwing it away."

"That's such a waste of food."

"Cry about it," Kyle taunted. Then he softened, because he knew that secretly, wasted food was the exact sort of thing Stan did cry about or, rather, the thought of orphaned children going without dinner. That, of course, was in addition to abandoned animals, and the thought of the polar ice caps melting. "It's not really a waste, you know, considering how bad it was. I'm going to get up and throw it away."

"Sure, go ahead." Stan finished wiggling the newest log around, and shut the doors to the fireplace. "I bet you don't get up for an hour."

"Make your fucking cat get off me and we'll talk."

"I can't make him do anything." Stan fell into the couch next to Kyle. "You're going to have to negotiate."

"Too much work." Kyle shut his eyes. "He's lucky I haven't been able to eat anything today, or I'd be puking it up all over him. In a way, it would be a very fitting revenge for all those times he interrupted us."

"…which, technically, is your fault, for putting delicious-looking things where he could get to them."

"I hardly consider tinsel or fake snow _delicious_."

"Well, you're not a cat."

"I'm incredibly hungover, though," Kyle reminded Stan. "I didn't even drink that much."

"If it's possible to be hungover on Christmas, I mean the literal holiday, that would be you." Stan bit his lip momentarily and scratched Chastity behind his ear. "Then again, one of those damn martinis is like a 40."

"Jesus, you're making me ill. Please never mention Christmas martinis again."

"And you had like four of them."

Kyle groaned. "All right, I learned my lesson."

"It's not just you, though, my mom put away a couple. Which one was she drinking, again? Was it the Sugarplumtini?"

"No more. Please stop. I think I might barf, actually."

"Well, whatever." Stan gave the cat a final pat to the head, and moved a little closer to Kyle. "Welcome to the Marsh family tradition of getting completely fucking blasted on Christmas. I mean, I kept telling you Christmas isn't all figgy pudding and cheer."

"As an upside, though, they took your announcement pretty well."

"Yeah, so far." Stan glanced at the clock. "We can expect to get a dramatic phone call from my dad in about four hours."

"I don't see what the big deal is."

"Oh, _you_ don't see what the big deal is. You, who's been having an aneurysm over my religion since you found out about it."

"Well, it matters to _me_," Kyle explained. "I mean, like half of my issue is about the intactness of your cock, really, and I have to hope your parents don't have a practical interest in that."

"You would be surprised at what my father can find it in himself to care about," Stan remarked. "Or maybe not. Nothing shocks me anymore."

"That's true," Kyle agreed. He tried to give Stan a smile, but moving certain facial muscles was proving too painful still. So instead, he shut his eyes, and tried to get a little sleep. He noticed Stan lifting the cat off of his lap, but this didn't stir him.

Sleep proved pretty difficult, especially considering the fact that when Kyle shut his eyes, he felt like he was spinning. So he yawned, and tried to sit up, which also proved to be somewhat irritating. Stan was still sitting there, although the cat had left. His arms were crossed, and he was wearing an incredibly stupid smirk.

"What are you doing?" Kyle asked fuzzily.

"Watching you sleep."

"That's not creepy."

"I can't help it. You're adorable."

"Why do you say that?" Kyle asked. "I probably look fucking green, and if I make any sudden moves I'm going to dry-heave."

"That's gross, but endearing." Stan uncrossed his arms and brushed some hair out of his eyes. "You're endearingly crass."

"And nauseated. And wondering how I'm going to get off if I can't stick my cock inside your foreskin." Kyle blushed. "To put it bluntly. Or crassly."

"It's not like that's all we ever do," Stan noted. "I mean, you can eat ass like a pro. Frankly, I think I've been letting the great majority of your skills go untested."

"I'm not in the mood to be tested, honey. I'm fucking ill."

"It's okay." Stan shrugged. "I'm used to spending the day after Christmas watching people choke down aspirin like it's edible crack. I mean, I've never had to do it sitting in a room with a birds-and-fruits themed tree, let alone _two_ depressingly gay trees, but whatever."

"I want you to know I'm not giving up Christmas for you," Kyle announced. Then he recoiled. "Oh man, who would have envisioned _me_ saying that to _you_?"

"When we were children? Probably no one."

"What prompted that decision?"

Kyle shifted his weight on the couch, and moved his head a little closer to Stan's. "I just like it, is all. Well, that and I had a talk with Kenny."

"The same Kenny who gave us a glass pipe the size of my thigh and a box of biscotti for Christmas?"

"Yeah, that one," Kyle confirmed. "The one who's an insufferable douche."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Okay, well, so we'll keep having Christmas. It's not like I believe in Judaism." He softened his voice nearly to a whisper, and said, "I just believe in us."

Kyle frowned. "That is so corny." He said this like it was a bad taste he was trying to get out of his mouth. "Besides. If you don't believe in Judaism, what's the use in converting?" Before Stan could answer, Kyle warningly told him, "The metaphorical _us_ is not a religion, mind you."

Stan cleared his throat. "I suppose it's inaccurate to call myself an atheist, considering." He paused to choose his words carefully. Then he continued: "You want someone who'll never leave you. I don't ever want to leave you. Your mother, when she was buying me lunch and trying to sway me, well — I don't quite think she realized that I was already decided long before she began. I mean, she helped me with some of the practical details. But she really wanted me to do it for the wrong reasons, this blind adherence to some kind of ancient trope.

"But it's, like, whatever, as far as that's concerned. You're what matters to me, and I've been thinking a lot lately about our children — and no, you don't have to start seizing in protest, I'm not ready, either. But I can't see them not being a part of this … cohesive family unit. And that includes all things, and religion is part of it. … Also, we will all get each other's Social Security Numbers tattooed on our asses."

"My ass would look horrible with your Social Security Number on it," Kyle mused. "I really don't want to draw attention to the fact that it's kind of expansive."

"I like that aspect of it," Stan confessed. "And in a way it's very lyrical, you know, this whole thing. It's kind of like you're shoving your cock head in the foreskin of my life."

Kyle narrowed his eyes. "I wouldn't call that lyrical."

"Well, suit yourself. Just let me tell you one last overwrought thing."

"Sure." Kyle nodded. "Then you go make me a pot of coffee. And some baked beans," he added.

"Okay, sure." Stan cleared his throat. "When I was about 14 years old, I started really enjoying Confession. I knew it was something I had to do, which I have always disliked as a rule of thumb, but this is different. When I would get in there, aside from always sort of wondering if Father Maxi was beating off on the other side, I would just _talk_ about how I was having romantic feelings for my best friend, who was also a guy. And he would kind of tell me to do a Hail Mary or 20, but the point was, I got to discuss it with someone."

"Yeah, someone who probably looked down on you for it."

"Well, whether or not he did, it was nice to get it off my chest. So I don't want to say that Catholicism hasn't given me anything, because it has — it helped me work out my feelings for you. And, you know, it's always been something I shared with my parents. But I'm with you now, and I don't have to keep that shit to myself or between me and God. So, fuck it. I'm hopping ship. Does that make sense? When you said Catholicism was perfectly okay, or whatever you said, I just want you to know, I agree. It's fine. It's just not me anymore, you know? Because as much as you wish I wouldn't, people do change, and the person I was when I was fantasizing about you isn't better than the person I am when I'm with you." Stan coughed awkwardly. "And also, I plan to be _completely_ high when they carve that skin off my dick. I wouldn't go into that shit sober if my life depended on it."

"Wonderful," Kyle agreed. "I just hope you realize, if you think I'm going to let that fucking cat ruin any more orgasms for me, I'm gonna take it to the groomers and have them shave it bald. Got me?"

"I got you."

"Great." Kyle pressed his lips to Stan's. They kissed. Kyle drew away, and blushed. "I'd give you tongue, but I think it'll taste like Grand Marnier and marshmallow."

Stan stood up. "I'll go make you your beans now."

He began to walk away.

"And coffee!" Kyle shouted after him. "If you forget my coffee, Stan, so help me I will—"

As he lit the stove, Stan felt good to be within earshot of the same callous bitching he wanted to be privy to until he died and was buried, without Kyle's Social Security Number tattooed on his ass. He didn't dare mention it, but he knew as well as Kyle that tattooing was taboo in the Jewish religion.


End file.
